


The Thousand-Fingered Wait

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Season/Series 03, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam counts the days during <i>Mystery Spot.</i> Warning: laundry list of kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thousand-Fingered Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2008.

The sixteenth Tuesday, Sam wakes up half expecting to find his brother in pieces, flesh cooling in the air, but he's whole and glowing, head bopping just slightly off beat to notes branded in his head. He's never been a musical person, but every chord, every half recorded sigh, every inflection of the damn thing is his now to keep.

He has to reach out because he needs to erase the memory of his brother's _bone_ out in the air, gleaming with blood, the scattered thing on the ground that had been Dean.

To his credit, Dean only gives him a look when Sam's fingertips graze his neck.

"Dude?"

He has the eyebrow up, fingers still tangled in his bootlaces, only a little uncertainty in his voice. There should be more there, more fear, more preparation, but Sam knows there never will be, not today. He touches his cheek because it feels hot, blushes harder when he thinks about it.

Dean drowns in the bathtub.

 

 

 

The twentieth Tuesday, Sam doesn't say anything about Groundhog Day, or the Mystery Spot. He tries to think of a plan, the slow build he's used to, precise, reliable, but there can't be a plan, because Dean won't _remember_ , foundations crumbling down, bloody, at the end of each day. So Sam bites his lip, doesn't say anything, just moves. Dean's _what the fuck_ is lost in the clack of their teeth, but his hands, palms against Sam's chest to push him away, are already fisting in the material of his shirt, searching, unsure.

Sam pulls back, looks at the brightness dawning in Dean's eyes, feels a pang already for the loss of it tomorrow, today. Dean starts to say something, but Sam brings his hand up, so he can feel warm breath, damp limps moving.

"Don't. Just, trust me, ok?"

He pulls, and Dean goes bravely down.

 

 

 

Sixty-six, and Sam wakes with the memory of Dean spread out on the bed before him, ass up, knees spread invitingly, asking for it, _begging_ for it, sounds ground into the bedsheets fisted near his cheek, a constant drum of _Samsamsam_ that hasn't stopped in his head.

Dean looks from the hand pulling at his bootlaces up Sam's arm to Sam's face, determined, his face folded in a question. Sam has memorized this face, far more thoroughly than he ever would have, even living cheek to cheek. There are things you unlearn about a sibling when you grow up and move apart. He thought he'd done that at Stanford, forgotten the little details, but Jess' death and everything after was only a reminder that the code of Dean was something in his blood. He couldn't have cut it out of himself. And now, now he knows the pattern of every freckle like a pining astronomer, the slight imperfection in the nose, the math of sharp cheekbones, their father's jaw, the lines and familiar folds that have names like _death_ and _Mom_ and _Sam._ He knows all this like a researcher his life work, an artist his masterpiece, a man his own face.

Sam doesn't wait for the verbalization. He can't. He grabs Dean's cheek, fingers finding their way easily along the familiar contours, other hands going to the buttons of his shirt, this goddamn shirt that Sam will _burn_ when he figures it out. He thumbs open most of them, just pops the ones he knows are weak, until the pads of his fingers find skin, twisting a nipple until Dean swears into Sam's mouth. He kisses like he means to swallow Dean whole, as if that will keep him safe. Sam would, a thousand times over, if he knew that was it - that as the answer. Methodically, he undoes everything that Dean just did minutes ago, _months_ ago, jeans pulled roughly down his thighs, the denim scratching Dean's skin so he hisses, arches that much closer. He reaches for the lube he learned - and _learned_ \- that Dean keeps in the drawer - second one down, left corner, slicks himself up, practiced. His fingers find every spot inside Dean, every spot he _knows_ , until his brother's liquid in his hands. And then Sam's done waiting, done learning, relearning, he just takes, one hand shoving Dean's thigh up until he's open to Sam, head tilted forward, eyes shut against the blunt press of every inch, dragging along nerves, slick skin clinging.

When Sam finally, finally bottoms out, Dean looks stunned, eyes opening wide and dark. It reminds Sam of the very first time, so long ago, Dean's eyes, hurt and bright, his mouth working uselessly, but his eyes - _I'm sorry_ and a thousand other apologies, until Sam wanted to scream. So he moves first, drawing back out and pistoning in, sharp hips moving, dragging Dean with him on the bed, the tatters of his shirt still crumpled damp at his back. Sam thrusts until he's tired, his eyes dry, the physical tightening in his belly hardly a matter, doesn't open his eyes until he realizes Dean's fist is pounding against one shoulder, Dean's voice in his ear.

"Sam, Sam, shut the fuck up. Sam, tell me, c'mon, Sammy, what's wrong, uh, Sam - "

Rhythm like he's been saying it forever, voice hoarse. Then Sam listens to his own voice.

_Stay._

Dean doesn't.

 

 

 

Dean never has any marks in the morning, even when Sam remembers leaving them, fingerprint bruises and raised bite marks, spots of red overwhelmed by blood or piss or whatever else sends Dean to the end of his days. He spends weeks obsessed with leaving a sign, anything, that he and Dean had ever touched, ever loved each other, ever been anything other than what they are right now today.

Sometimes Sam starts early, licking his way gently down Dean's spine, over geography he could redraw in a second, until he gets to Dean's shadowed hole, always welcoming, makes Dean moan like a girl into the bed, fucking his tongue in. Then a finger beside his tongue, moving against each other, friction so Dean will make the perfect sound in the catalogue that Sam already knows, and twist his hips into air, fucking himself further. When he gets to three, and Dean's a moaning, sweating mess, Sam's name dripping off his tongue like water, Sam looks down at his wrist, the sharp knob of it, wonders what it would look like swallowed by Dean, wonders what it would _feel_ like, holding Dean that way, from the inside, keeping him there.

"Hey," he says, gentle as he can make his voice, roughened because his mind is rough. "Hey, can I?"

And Dean doesn't remember, _can't_ remember, but he knows anyway, knows Sam because he always had, doesn't need eighty days to get there. He nods breathless, flecks of spit drying along his upper lip, eyes blown wide. His legs spread sluttily, inviting Sam in, even though it must burn. Sam curls them tight as he can, at four, works them in and out, his hand dripping with lube, _shhs_ and _oks_ on his tongue, soothing meaningless things. When he folds his thumb alongside, Dean does it himself, jerks hard and jolts them the rest of the way in, till Sam's looking at his wrist between Dean's legs, surrounded by reddened, stretched flesh, and he can't speak, and the way Dean just _gives_ this to him, even though he's sweating the sheets translucent, swearing like he doesn't know how to stop.

The next time, Sam has Dean on his hands and knees, waiting.

That morning, eighty-two, Dean had put up a fight in the diner, refused Sam's half cryptic commands to _stay in here, eat your food_ , and Sam had been angry, so angry. He'd stood up, looming, dragging Dean up by the collar and shepherding him outside in the false bright sunshine.

 _Just do it, Dean._ His voice deep and tired from repetition, more like a parent's than he ever thought it would be, even with Jess. When Dean opened his mouth to question, to protest, Sam surged forward, pressing him bodily against the restaurant's brick exterior, until their breaths mingled, Dean's lucky twice (more) saved heart beating rapidly through cloth and skin. Sam shoved a thigh forward, felt what was there between Dean's legs, and looked down into his brother's open, panting mouth, the red flush of color along his cheeks, the way his throat throbbed with pleasure. Dean never even looked him in the eye, just cast his lashes down, hand uncurling from a fist against the wall, knuckles already raw.

Now, his skin is so fair along his hips and ass, at odds with Dean's prickly exterior. The first slap reddens it immediately, almost comically, and Dean jolts, his cock jumping wetly against his belly.

"This is so fucked up, Sam. Sam, this is - "

And his voice dissolves into a groan when Sam launches the next one, sharp and fast, controls the power of it exactly. It's already near sunset. They'd found nothing in the Mystery Spot as usual. No dinner. Simple return to the room. Dean shuddering every time Sam's voice deepens, Sam's hand curled at his collar, reassuring, commanding. He wonders, dreads, how the day will end, is furious that he can't even have this, can't even _keep_ this. He has trouble keeping track of the blows, just goes until his hand's half numb, and Dean's only barely on his elbows, body slopped onto the sheets, messy, undone, making soft, wet unthinking noises that tighten Sam's throat, even more so than the sounds of his body, yielding and needy and human, beneath Sam's hand. His ass is a welted mess, swollen pink and white, mark after mark, layered on top of each other. Sam can see the shape of himself there, where it should naturally bruise, but won't, and feels only a little sated. He runs a hand down Dean's spine, where it trembles, where Dean can't form words anymore, drapes himself over that heat until Dean hisses, then settles. Waits for his brother to die.

Sam has already accidentally killed Dean three times before he tries choking. Dean mouthing off again, questioning, controlling when Sam evades, but now Sam knows how to play him, knows the way he'll fold with the right tone, the right word. He straightens his shoulders, _tells_ Dean to shut up and let him explain, but that's not enough this time, not after Dean's pushed beneath him on the bed, breathing hard, words gargled, _Sam, Sam, need you -_

Likes the way his fingers close over Dean's stubbled throat, wonders if these marks will rise before the day begins again. Dean _asks_ for it, almost like he remembers everything else, all the other invisible bruises, Sam's, that should be on his body. Rasps, Sam, Sam, as if that will save him. Sam's tried already. He presses and presses, imagining black and blue collaring his brother, imagining everyone else knowing that Dean's his to hurt, to bruise, to kill, no one else's. And forgets, that he's a killer too. That this is a death too. Dean goes with a look of bliss.

 

 

 

By the one hundredth day, Sam has memorized every routine the town has, has seen their diner conversation in every incarnation, has tried everything. And now he's too tired to go outside, too tired to open his eyes, do it again. He thinks, terribly, briefly, about killing Dean himself, early, quickly, painlessly, to give himself a moment's rest. But the thought passes along with his tired brain. The room seems to mock him with its familiar bows and curves, yawning out to greet him every day, catty and knowing, like a thousand other places he hated as a kid, blamed on his dad. He makes Dean stay in the day after, just buries himself inside him, tight, holds him there on the bed, waiting, as if this will keep his brother there. He falls asleep even though he doesn't mean to, cock spent in his sleep, warm inside his brother, Dean already dead.

 

 

 

Sam spends one day mourning Dean. He takes him where he wants to go, doesn't say a word about his music or Tuesday, and then in bed, lets Dean fuck him, shivering and grunting _Sam_ because it's good for him. He deserves it even though he won't remember it. Sam's eyes are dry when Dean stops breathing.

 

 

 

Sam thought growing up would be Stanford, away from Dad and Dean, but that was a lie. He always knew they were a phone call away in truth, that if he were really in danger, they, at least Dean, wouldn't hesitate. This is growing up, nothing left in the world for him, Dean who had always looked after his every need so obsessively is not so much gone as an empty space, which is far, far worse. Because Sam still reaches for him, even though he buried him, still wants to hold the back of his neck so Dean will look at him quiet and trusting, even though he burned the body, still sets aside every meal, though the air is always quiet across from him, not even a whisper of a ghost, a presence. He's spent months looking for every possible sign of danger, and that's not something he can just drop, still a hand, a gun, a word, to protect someone not even there. The anxious feeling of Dean out of his sight is permanently in his head now, filtering everything into a painful, sharp focus.

He's seen deaths far more horrible than the last one, but that will always be the worst, when he opened his eyes again, hoping, reaching, lost, Dean's slack face, still beautiful, still _Dean_ beneath him. He's wondered a thousand times how much a mind can take, how much it can see before he has to shut it away.

There was one time when Sam was six or seven, before he really knew, and they were living a few months in a little clapboard house, where the walls were all obnoxious pastels, robin's egg - though he didn't know at the time - and pale yellow, pealing merrily at the corners, furniture yawning lazily in their messy upkeep. Sam tried dressing it up, dried flowers in an old jam jar he'd scrubbed, until Dean frowned, called him a girl, and he'd thrown them away in angry tears. He came home from school once, mad because Dean hadn't been there to pick him up like he said he would, so Sam had to wait with the other unwanted kids, until he lied and told the teacher his brother was just down the block. The house was quiet except for the deep sound of his father from within, and water splashing, Dean's lighter tones overlaid. It felt so peaceful for a second that Sam just set down his backpack and listened. The sight in the bathroom was shocking because it was so brief. The scarred mountain of his father's back faced him like a puzzle, dark geography clearly marked, something that Sam didn't know, couldn't feel his way around. John's was bowed in the water, which swirled pink around him, shivering a little, his dark hair matted, and Dean stood at his side, one hand pale on his father's shoulder, the other pointing accusingly at Sam.

 _Get out, Sammy, go do your homework._ Bright eyes leveled at him, and Sam could read the panic even then, overlaid with his father's strange silence. He took a step back, stuttered, _Is he gonna die?_ Because he'd never thought about that before. It made him feel terrified and grownup looking at his tired, quiet father, straight back so bent, not smooth like Sam always imagined in his head, but covered with dangerous things that looked like little deaths littered along his spine.

 _No, stupid,_ Dean bit angrily. _Go away._ Door shut, and the house quiet again except for murmurs.

John's death always hits him at odd moments, and now it's lost in the loss of Dean. Sam is rattled, anchored only be Dean's bag, Dean's amulet heavy and cold beneath his clothes. He tried for so long to find the last little detail that would change the day that it's hard to let that slip away, in how he does his research, legibly, square corners and tight notes. He mends his clothes when he needs to, wears them with some of that straightness he saw leeching away pink in the water, scrapes knife and fork carefully so he can keep going, washes when he's filthy. He keeps his body ready for when he finds the thing, nothing to spare, scars building till he can no longer pretend to be smooth, smiling, for a child. He'd said once he'd be like Dean, but he's not. Because Dean was reckless, easy with his life. God, Sam could have lost him a hundred times before Tuesday, in all the careless, stupid things they did, and he'd never been _aware_ , been _knowing_ enough to do the right things, watch out for his brother. Sam keeps himself safe because he's waiting.

He wakes up in the morning sometimes, and thinks about going back to sleep, before the dry, hot urge, old discipline takes him again. He doesn't like mirrors, doesn't like being in public for the same reason. Girls don't look at him the same anymore, Dean's goofy younger brother, the college boy, sweet and safe and virginal. They freeze a little when he comes close, stiff, knees locked like deer, soft like deer. Sam could take them all apart, and they know it, shivering when he reaches too close to settle a bill, or even begins to look their way.

When he finally gets the call, he's less relieved than eager.

 

 

 

"It's Wednesday?"

His hands are the first thing, smooth and relatively unscarred, hands he hasn't seen in months. He can feel the soft spots on his body that he thought he'd weaned out. And of course there's Dean, one hip cocked, deep words curling out his mouth, blissfully _there_. Sam has seen Dean fucked, has _fucked him_ in every conceivable way. He's seen the pink dark gleam of his insides, every inch of his cock, heard every story that might have been lost in the thousand moments they missed each other. He knows the noise Dean makes before he comes, the sour taste of his semen, the heavy hair beneath his armpits. He knows the old sore spot on Dean's left hip that will have him arching up like a needy cat, knows the twinge in one arm they need to be careful with, knows every break, every strain Dean's ever had, the way his hands curve, the stiffness in one finger, how slick the inside of his mouth is, the arrangement of his teeth. He knows every trigger, the exact pitch he needs to hit to make Dean bend, make Dean prove he's really there, not just a full plate across the table and cold touch of metal under Sam's shirt.

Sam has seen _inside_ his brother, what makes him up in bone and blood and flesh, has seen it broken and burned and splayed out in every way. He knows Dean too literally, every intake, every breath of what he _might_ do, could do just about anything now, and he knows Dean would allow it.

Because Dean likes to be loved, likes to be taken care of, little moue of pleasure softening his mouth when he thinks Sam can't see at every order, every careful step to protect him. It steels him against things below, against things ahead, makes him braver, better, things he whispers almost beneath the skin because it's not Dean to ever say it.

He looks at Dean's puzzled eyes, his curled hands, Dean's cheek, rough exactly to the point Sam had known for months day after day, the bitter, tight feeling of the empty table, the empty bed, the empty car a small, hurt thing inside his chest. It should be hard to breathe, to believe, to think _it's over_ , but it's not. Sam has been prepared, has been waiting for this, for so long it can't come anything but easily. Anything, anything he ever wants, could want, and Dean would just open himself up.

Sam draws him in, cheek to ear, full of something that balloons, carries him away, and breathes.


End file.
